Oh , I am weary of the fool's light place!
I am a-weary of the songs I sing!
I am a-weary of the flowers I bring!
And I am weary of your smile's sweet grace;
Of all these things I am a-weary now,
Yea, sick of all, as once again I bow
My capped shorn head before your starlike face.

Oh Beauty, when your fingers lightly touch
My painted cheek in payment for my mirth
The heart beneath my motley leaves the earth
And singing, reels — a drunken thing — to such
Wild heavens, my Queen, as you know nothing of —
You do not know because you know not love
(Yet have I watched your eyes a-dreaming much).
Dream, dream, sweet Queen, upon your purple throne, —
Your days of power over me are few;
Ere long your distant dreams are coming true
On songs of mine from which all mirth has flown;
These mocking lips whose jests you found so droll
Shall search upon your mouth and find your soul, —
And drink it up to mingle with mine own!

Adored, so dream I from my fool's light place,
And pity you who sometimes pity me,
(I have surprised your eyes fixed pityingly!)
But I am weary of your smile's sweet grace;
Forgive! — because my love so restless is
To vanquish, Queen, your glory in a kiss,
And lay love's face upon your starlike face.